


Touching Base

by china_shop



Series: Trading Places [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Law enforcement isn't supposed to be fun," grumbled Clinton. "It's the government. It's serious work."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touching Base

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mergatrude for beta and encouragement. <3 <3 <3

Neal was lying on the couch in a t-shirt and yoga pants, with a much-deserved glass of wine and a good book, when Clinton got home.

"God, I'm exhausted," said Clinton, before the door had shut behind him.

Neal mentally noted the page number and put his book aside. "How'd it go? Did you get him?"

"Yeah, we got him." Clinton disappeared around the corner, there was the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, and he came back a few seconds later with an open bottle of beer. He grabbed a cushion from the end of the couch and settled on the floor at Neal's feet, his legs stretched out in front of him. "Technically, Cruz took him down after Mitchell chased him over half the park." Clinton shook his head. "He was armed of course. I could be at the morgue right now."

"But everyone's okay," said Neal. If they weren't, Clinton wouldn't be here. He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Neal studied him in three-quarter profile -- there was something different, a new curve to his mouth or a glint in his eye. "Admit it, you're having fun."

"I'm having migraines," said Clinton, but when Neal touched his shoulder, he gestured vaguely. "Metaphorical ones. Con artist migraines. Potential disaster ones."

"Better than the literal kind." Neal put down his glass and sat up, shifting so that Clinton was between his knees. He began to knead Clinton's shoulders lightly through his shirt. "You got Ghovat, which is an impressive week's work, Agent Jones, and I've seen one nice young straight couple married -- mazel tov -- and yet another superfluous phone app launched on an unsuspecting world, not to mention the spur-of-the-moment fashion soiree we threw together for you."

"Did I remember to thank you for that?" Clinton tipped his head back to meet Neal's gaze.

"Hey, not often I get to help take down a murderer." Neal kissed his temple and kept massaging. "Anyway, combined, that's a productive week by anyone's standards. I think it merits a celebration."

"You think everything merits celebration," said Clinton. He took a swig of beer, set the bottle aside and leaned back into Neal's hands.

Neal dug his thumbs deeper into the tense muscles, eliciting something between a sigh and a groan. "You know, this would be better without the shirt."

"You think everything's better without the shirt." There was a distinct smile in Clinton's voice.

Neal leaned forward and murmured in his ear, "Not everything. Some things. And I'm usually right."

"You are a wise, wise man." Clinton unknotted his tie and stood up, holding out his hand. "Come on, then. Come to bed. Let's celebrate."

Neal let himself be pulled to his feet and slid his arms around Clinton's waist, meeting his kiss with enthusiasm despite the taste of beer. "A fitting end to a good week's work."

 

*

 

A couple of hours later, they were back on the couch. Clinton reached forward to help himself to the last of the pot stickers from the debris on the coffee table, and when he sat back again, Neal elbowed him, and said around a mouthful of chow mein, "So, how's Elizabeth doing really?"

Clinton groaned. "It's the weekend."

"Okay, fine." Neal shook his head. "Tell me about Satchmo, then. Is he settling in at Burke's?"

"He's fine," said Clinton. "Apparently Burke's neighbors have teenage kids. He's paying them to check in on the puppy during the day. And of course Elizabeth's been to visit twice already. I think it's just an excuse to get outside her radius."

"At least she's not robbing art galleries or forging anything," said Neal. "And if anyone's incorruptible, it's Peter Burke."

"He'd better be." Clinton stirred his food idly with his chopsticks. "I overheard him telling Diana that Elizabeth had offered to teach him to cheat at cards. 'It might come in useful for a case,' he said, no lie."

"Okay, that's a rationalisation if ever I heard one." Neal grinned. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Clinton groaned. "She's trouble. She's impractical and unpredictable, she has no sense of self-preservation, she--"

"If she's survived this long, pulling the kind of stunts she does, she must have some survival skills. And she's helping you close cases," said Neal. "Babe, if anyone can keep her on the right side of the law, it's you. I have total faith in you."

Clinton sighed, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "That means a lot." Neal's knee nudged up against his, and Clinton just sat there for a while, reveling in the fact of the weekend and trying not to think about Elizabeth Mitchell. "Did I tell you about the wig?"

"No! Tell me about the wig."

"When she showed up to work this morning, she was blonde." Clinton rubbed his forehead, remembering the stir of interest around the office, an unnecessary distraction when they were in the middle of a high-stress case. "I mean, I knew she wore disguises for different jobs, but apparently she just likes to dress up sometimes. Can you believe that?"

Neal shrugged. "It sounds like she's not comfortable being herself. Give her time. She'll get used to working with you guys, maybe she'll settle down."

"Time. Right." Clinton cracked his eyes open and looked sideways at Neal. "If she stays out of prison, working for me, things are never going to be the same, you know? No more nine to five. It's going to be a three-ring circus all the time. It's going to be--"

"Fun," said Neal. "And you were never a nine-to-five kind of guy."

"Law enforcement isn't supposed to be fun," grumbled Clinton. "It's the government. It's serious work."

"Can't it be both?" Neal moved closer and lowered his voice. "I'm serious about you, and we have fun."

"That's not the same." But for a moment, Clinton wondered if it could be. Maybe a commitment to doing the right thing didn't have to be po-faced and tedious, combing through file after file, researching and analyzing for months at a time. Maybe it would be better this way, jumping in feet first, improvising when necessary. He shook his head: that was Mitchell talking, which meant she was already in his head. Well, he'd just have to guard against her, keep his feet firmly on the ground. He took Neal's hand. "Tell me if I start to go off the rails, okay? I mean it."

"I'll tell you," said Neal. He gave Clinton a crooked smile and leaned in to kiss him softly. "It's okay. I'll keep watch, I promise."

 

END


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